


At the Old Ball Game

by PunkHazard



Category: Elementary (TV), Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-05
Updated: 2014-10-05
Packaged: 2018-02-19 22:31:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2405291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PunkHazard/pseuds/PunkHazard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Abbie and Joan drag their stick-in-the-mud English partners to a baseball game and have a chance encounter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At the Old Ball Game

"I don't eat because I enjoy it, Watson," Sherlock says, a slight contemptuous upturn to his lips to show his disdain for the line milling in front of the Citi Field Shake Shack, "I eat because it fulfils a basic human function. Like sex. Did you know there's a fascinating young man who's developing an alternative to food? He calls it Soylent."

Joan raises an eyebrow, turning their order ticket in her hand while they wait. 

"It would make the act of eating obsolete except as an occasional diversion," Sherlock adds. "I donated to his Kickstarter."

"That's nice," Joan answers, plopping a burger in its little paper bag into his hand. A gooey drip of cheese oozes out of a deep-fried mushroom, and she tells him cheerfully, "Have a Shack Stack."

"Now I'm not denying that food has its merits to the-- you know, the human psyche," he continues, following Joan to their seats, but when she looks over her shoulder, his eyes are tracking a pair of spectators making themselves comfortable in the third row, right behind their own seats. "And I can enjoy the occasional epicurean masterpiece-- but. Hunger is a hindrance to my intellectual process when it interrupts my research."

"I understand," Joan tells him when he's finished and they've finally reached their seats. She adjusts the bill of her cap to account for the direction of the sun and their view of the field, then stabs a cheese fry with a plastic fork. "But seriously, Sherlock? Just eat your burger and watch the game. It's actually pretty strategic, and I think you would appreciate it."

Sherlock takes a calculated bite out of his Shack Stack, allowing the cheese inside to cool just enough so it doesn't scald his mouth. Joan watches his face for a few seconds more, at the way his eyebrows shoot up and he unhesitatingly tears through the rest of it. It doesn't come as a surprise to her that he can appreciate classic American cuisine; he's always _liked_ food, no matter how much he'd insist otherwise. 

"Yes, yes," he says, swallowing the last bit of his burger as he wipes his hands on a napkin, "I've done my research, there's a fascinating study on aerodynamics of a ball and how pitchers use that effect to change its speed and trajectory and that would be quite interesting to explore on my own sometime. It's all very gripping, but the game itself is, I have to admit, fairly dull."

"I'm gonna let that slide because the game is starting," Joan says. "Cheese fry?"

Sherlock takes one.

* * *

Just behind them, Ichabod meticulously folds down the edges of his paper bag, giving him easy access to the donut holes inside. He uses his hand to shield his eyes briefly from the sun, hardly blinking when Abbie drops a baseball cap into his lap. He only adjusts his ponytail and fits the hat onto his head. 

"That's a Yankees cap," she says, "they're probably going to win, I had one of them lying around."

"The _Yankees_? I've never considered that a term of endearment, Lieutenant," Ichabod murmurs under his breath. "And they and these Mets both represent New York? Do any other... establishments do this?"

"You see that train station we passed?" Abbie asks. "You can get to both their stadiums on it, so when they qualify to play each other, it's usually called the Subway Series. I don't really know about other states."

"Sherlock," Joan says, "no. Don't. We're here to watch the game. Sherlock--"

"As a matter of fact," Sherlock says, turning halfway in his seat, a smug quirk to his lips, "New York is one of eight states with more than one Major League Baseball team. The Mets are based in Queens, and the Yankees are homed in the Bronx. My associate happens to be a native of Queens, and roots for the woefully unsuccessful Mets despite currently living in the venerable King's County. Certainly, it's noble to root for the underdog, but I prefer to pin my hopes on a team that wins, if I absolutely must watch this tedious game."

"Oh wow," Abbie laughs disbelievingly, stifling the sound into her hands, "I don't even know where to start."

"I'm sorry about my colleague," Joan says, idly weighing the offensiveness of Sherlock's outburst. "He hates fun."

"It's no problem," Abbie answers, watching her own companion lean forward, as if reacting to the familiarity of Sherlock's accent while everyone around them stands for the national anthem, "he's new to baseball."

"Ichabod Crane," Ichabod announces with a polite half-bow from his seat.

"Sherlock Holmes, and my partner Joan Watson."

"Abbie Mills."

"Hey," Joan suggests, "how about we shuffle around a bit so people who actually enjoy baseball can watch it?"

"Brilliant suggestion, Watson." Sherlock stands in his seat just as the spectators around them sit down, drawing more than a few dirty looks. "Miss Mills, if you don't mind." 

"That actually sounds like a great idea," Abbie answers, standing immediately, and she prompts Sherlock to clamber over the back of his plastic chair into the upper row before stepping down herself in lieu of detouring into the aisle.

* * *

Joan offers Abbie a cheese fry the same moment Ichabod extends his bag of donut holes. "Where are you coming out from?"

"I'm a lieutenant with Sleepy Hollow PD, so we came in from Westchester."

"Upstate." Joan nods in understanding and sympathy, then asks, "How was the drive?"

"Not too bad." Abbie pops a fry into her mouth, then flashes her a smile. "What do you guys normally do, anyway?"

"Oh! We consult for the NYPD, ninth precinct."

"Seriously?" Abbie asks, sweeping her hair behind her shoulder. "Who do you work with? Maybe I know them."

"Captain Gregson and Detective Bell, but I don't know how closely they work with the rest of the state."

"You know Marcus?" The lieutenant's face lights up in recognition and she leans forward onto her elbows, Joan mirroring the gesture on her end as well. "How's he doing? We haven't talked since I moved back to Westchester, but he really helped me out when we were at the academy."

"The lieutenant is qualified to become an FBI agent," Ichabod cuts in proudly over Joan's shoulder, "though she generously decided to stay in Sleepy Hollow."

"We were the problem kids of our classes," Abbie laughs, and she doesn't see the way Ichabod looks at her, wondering-- it's the first time she's let her guard down enough around strangers to speak candidly about her past without prompting, though logically there's little risk in allowing that kind of information to slip around people you're unlikely to meet again. "You know, we had some family things going on, but we toughed it out."

"I can't imagine," Joan says, "that must have been hard. I'll let Detective Bell know you're in town, he'd probably love to hear from you! Do you want his number?"

"Oh-- yeah, sure," she replies. Ichabod leans away from Abbie, crosses his arms over his chest and settles himself back into his seat when her smartphone comes out. She fiddles with it for a few seconds, standing up to lean over and read off Joan's screen. Abbie continues, "I'm glad you guys are helping him out, the city can get pretty hectic. I would've ended up here if Sleepy Hollow didn't need me more."

Sherlock snorts-- not unkindly, but disbelieving. "How exciting could it be upstate?"

"You would be surprised," Ichabod tells him. "And I propose that you and Miss Watson visit sometime, I'm quite sure there will be plenty to keep you interested 'upstate'."

"You know, I'd love to take you up on that sometime, but--" Both women turn their heads at the meaty whack of a baseball against a bat, hands reaching simultaneously for their caps to account for the glare of the sun. A player takes first, leaning over with his hands on a knee as he turns to look at the batter, inching his foot away from the base. Joan pumps her arm into the air and shouts, "Yes!"

"But yeah," Abbie agrees, giving Joan a sideways grin as she comes to the realization that they're both rooting for the Mets, "talk later. Baseball now."

* * *

"That," Sherlock says, abruptly turning away from the game, "is a very authentic costume, by the way. But I doubt you work with the Sleepy Hollow Police Department dressed like that."

"You would be right," Ichabod tells him cheerfully, "Lieutenant Mills has helped me greatly and I am assisting her with her current case."

"And in your spare time you are," Sherlock allows a long silence to pass as he regards his new associate, quickly inspecting everything from the cut of his boots and jacket to his face and hands, nostrils flaring slightly, "a member of some Revolutionary War re-enactment troupe? Judging by the time period and style of your clothing, the stitching and buttons are actually quite true to the era. Commendable."

"Thank you," he answers smoothly, "I've concentrated my studies at Oxford on the war period, so I should hope I've got all the details right."

Sherlock's eyes narrow, gaze dragging over the callus on Ichabod's trigger finger before passing over the worn hems of his jacket and the rusted buttons on the same garment. He takes another donut hole when the bag is offered and Ichabod turns to watch the game, discreetly glancing at the other man out of the corner of his eye. 

"If you insist on sticking with that story," Sherlock informs him under his breath, also turning to sit comfortably in his seat, "I would suggest you refrain from introducing yourself with the name of an eighteenth-century freemason."

* * *

"Lieutenant Mills," Ichabod says to Abbie as the game winds down and they cross paths between their seats and the bathroom, Abbie on her way back and Ichabod on his way toward, "I believe our new acquaintance may have begun to suspect that my situation is... quite extraordinary."

"He guessed that you're a time-traveling revolutionary," Abbie deadpans. "That's too bad, because Joan is great."

"He seemed suspicious of the exacting accuracy with which my accoutrements adhere to my time period."

"Meaning..."

"Mr. Holmes has the inkling that I could be a time-traveling revolutionary." Ichabod pauses. Then, "Or perhaps that I am a delusional grave robber."

"Let's hope it's the second one," Abbie answers cheerfully as she heads back to her seat.

**Author's Note:**

> for the record, i wrote sherlock's opening diatribe on food & ichabod's revolutionary war re-enactment connection before either scene happened in their respective canons. i just took forever to actually wrap this fic up, woops!


End file.
